


Finding the grey

by BlushLouise



Series: Holoform [5]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Backstory, Falling In Love, Fluff, Jazz is patient, M/M, Meister - Freeform, Not Canon Compliant, Opposites Attract, Prowl is Oblivious, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 20:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14880689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushLouise/pseuds/BlushLouise
Summary: A millenium-long love story, told in a series of firsts.Prowl is a recruiter for the Autobot case. Being in charge of recruiting Meister has a bigger impact on his future than he could have ever predicted.





	Finding the grey

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant as a companion piece to "You had me at 'holoform'", but it can very easily be read alone.
> 
> Dialogue in the asteroid scene is from the G1 cartoon.

_Back then..._

* * *

_First meeting_

The sound of his footsteps is even, loud, ominous. He pauses outside the door, checking himself. Straight posture. Doorwings at an exact angle – strict, but calm. Stern frown in place. Weapons easily available, if needed. Not that they should be. The prisoner is secure, but this is a tricky one. He'd given them vorns of trouble before he fell into their grasp.

Then he opens the door and goes inside.

The shadow-colored mech is slouching in the chair across the table. He looks oblivious to the world, like he's not paying attention to anything. All an act, of course.

Prowl sits down in the other chair, steeples his fingers and looks across at the red visor. "Hello, Meister."

The other sneers. "Well, if it ain't Prime's pet enforcer. Ya know these won't hold me." He lifts his hands, indicate the stasis cuffs encasing his wrists. The setting on the cuffs must either be lower than recommended or he's doggedly fighting through the effect, because he shouldn't be able to use his arms if the cuffs were functioning at the correct capacity. Prowl estimates a 78.6 percent chance that the near-black mech is fighting through it. This is Meister, after all.

And bearing that in mind, the likelihood that he's fighting it is closer to 86 percent. He amends his plan accordingly.

"They seem to be doing their job so far," Prowl replies, keeping his voice deceptively mild. "We have insurances in place. You are not the first Decepticon to pass through here."

The black mech shoots to his feet so fast that Prowl actually misses the movement – one minute Meister is sitting, the next he's standing up and leaning as far forward as the chains permit him. "Ah'm not a 'Con!" he hisses.

Prowl makes a show out of consulting his datapad. "Ah, yes. You consider yourself to be a free operative, do you not?"

"Free as a breeze, Autobot," Meister grins, falling back into the chair and grinning lazily. These quicksilver moods would be intimidating to a lesser mech, but Prowl has done this before.

"Free to blow up the warehouse district in Simfur using the energon stored on-site?"

"Not me." Meister waves a hand, and Prowl is worried anew about the state of the cuffs. "Anyone coulda done that, though, th'energon was jus' lyin' there bein' all volatile and stuff."

"I see. And what about the assassination of senator Momus?"

"Ya peggin' that fragged-up process on me? Please." He snorts. "If Ah'd've done that, ya still wouldn't have known about it. B'sides, that's ancient history. So why am Ah here?" He leans forward, visor intent on Prowl's blue optics. Prowl notes the movement of the other's hands and calculate a 93.2 percent chance that the cuffs are set too low or are malfunctioning. Along with the fact that this is Meister, there's a 98.4 percent chance that sometime in the next few kliks…

"Because you wandered into our path," Prowl replies. "And we'd be fools to let you leave. And because you are guilty."

"Ah've never killed a Senator," Meister chuckles. "Was never paid enough to."

"Guilty of rebellion against the Senate," Prowl amends. "And of innumerable counts of violence, concealing contraband, and associating with a known terrorist group."

"Ah told ya Ah'm not a 'Con!" Meister snarls, and throws himself across the table, hands now free of the cuffs and burying themselves in Prowl's neck.

Ah. That's what he thought.

He has a moment of grim satisfaction that his calculations were accurate before the door is thrown open and the dark mech is hoisted bodily off him.

"Are you alright, sir?" the voice is concerned, if unfamiliar. He takes the proffered hand, pulls himself to his feet.

"I am alright, soldier, thank you." He lifts his hand, rubs at the sore neck cables. "No lasting harm."

"I'll have this one punished," the other, bigger soldier drawls, lifting his baton and preparing to strike Meister down with it. The red-visored mech is grinning fiercely beneath him.

"Negative," Prowl says sharply. "Leave him to me. Secure those stasis cuffs and leave us."

The soldiers fasten a new set of cuffs around the dark wrists, sit Meister back upright in his chair, tightening the chain going between the cuffs and the chain binding the other's legs.

Prowl straightens his chair and sits back down. "Then what are you, Meister, if you are not a Decepticon? The room for Neutral operatives is fast running out."

The grin never falters. But it's more a rigid grimace than an expression of pleasure.

Prowl stands up. "We will talk again soon. In the meantime, I'd suggest you think that question over."

"Or what? Ya goin' ta torture me?"

He pauses with one hand on the door handle. "We don't use torture. That doesn't mean that we do not get the answers we seek."

Then he walks out, leaving the sneering mech behind.

* * *

_First promises_

 

He pauses outside the door, just as he's done the last fourteen times he's been down here. Checks doorwings, posture, expression. Walks into the room.

Meister looks… defeated. Though Prowl calculates a 67.5 percent chance that it's an act.

"Hello, Meister," he says pleasantly.

The red visor's glow is weaker than usual. "Hello, Prowl," the dark mech replies. His matte black paint is scuffed, worn.

Prowl takes in his appearance again, changes what he was going to say. "You look tired, Meister. Do you not recharge well?"

"Try not at all," Meister mumbles. "Not since last time ya came by." He looks up then, and there's a flash of his usual temper in his red visor. "Ah thought ya said ya didn't use torture."

"We don't," Prowl says, noticing with hidden satisfaction that his calculations were correct, again. With a mech this wild, this unpredictable, he takes note of every victory he can see. "But even you must agree that dangerous prisoners need to be locked up between interrogations."

"Ya locked me up in a room wi' no light and no sound," Meister snarls. "That's torture, mah mech."

"I apologize," Prowl replies smoothly. "We're short on amenities here." He pauses, examines the mech in front of him. Meister hasn't fought him for some time now, he's behaving himself. He seems more willing to listen.

Maybe it's time to set the next part of the plan into action.

"You would prefer noise?" Prowl asks. He already knows the answer, but how Meister answers this will give him an important measure of the dark mech's mentality.

Meister looks away. Or he seems to – his red visor is facing the wall, but who knows where his optics are focused. "Ah prefer sound," he replies testily. "And people around me. Never did well in silence." He turns towards Prowl again, but slowly, as if it bothers him to move. "So how long are ya plannin' ta keep me here for?"

"Right here? Not long at all," Prowl replies, making a sudden decision. But not an uninformed one – his calculations indicate that it has a 89.4 percent chance of succeeding, meaning progress in the case, and the likelihood of a permanent positive solutions will go up to an even 65 percent. It's worth the risk. "In fact, I've come to collect you."

Optic ridges raise above the red visor. "Collect me?"

"Yes," Prowl says, standing up. "You're being moved. Now, I need your word that you will come willingly and not make trouble. If you promise this, you will be unchained and allowed to walk under your own power. If you refuse…"

"Yeah, yeah, Ah get it," Meister sneers. "If Ah refuse, Ah'll be carted like a piece of equipment." He eyes the doorwinged mech speculatively. "Ya know Ah don' give mah word easily."

"I know," Prowl confirms. It's the whole reason he's chancing this. The dark mech has a reputation for never going back on his word. "But this is a mutually beneficial situation without negative consequence to you."

"Unless Ah walk past the perfect opportunity ta escape and can't take it 'cause of my vow," Meister points out, but he's grinning. And for the first time since Prowl first met him it's a thing of mirth, not a grimace. "Okay. Ah promise ta not make trouble an' ta come quietly."

"Thank you," Prowl says, walking around the table. "Give me your hands."

Meister lifts his arms with clear discomfort – the strength of the stasis cuffs has been upped three times since his capture, he shows a remarkable resilience to their effects – and places them on the table. He watches closely as Prowl reaches down and unfastens the cuffs, before kneeling down and unfastening the ankle chains. It's a very vulnerable position, and he doesn't take his gaze away from Meister's hands. For all his vow, he is as unpredictable as ever.

Meister gives a relieved sigh when he's finally released, and he stretches his limbs out eagerly. "Now that's better. Thanks, mah mech." He stands up, not without wavering slightly. Standing, he's just a little shorter than the enforcer – Meister's head reaches to just above Prowl's chin.

Prowl nods at him. "Come."

The shorter mech falls into step next to him easily. "What, no guards?"

Prowl quirks an eyebrow at him. "Do we need any?"

Meister's visor angles, indicating his optics are travelling the full length of Prowl's frame. "Nah," he grins, finally, and the expression is almost sultry. "Nah, mah mech, we don't."

Another attempt to knock him off balance, Prowl muses. Well, that won't work. Meister is not the first prisoner to try, and he won't be the last.

He escorts the dark prisoner down the hallway and up the stairs, taking the left turn at the top. When Meister stops at the end of the hall, staring, Prowl allows the kliks he'd calculated that it would take to get the prisoner past this point.

"Whoa," Meister whispers. "Ya've got quite the view here."

"It is breathtaking," Prowl agrees.

And it is. The base itself isn't that spectacular, but the view of Praxus just beyond is amazing. The lighted towers, the glowing crystals… Prowl could watch it endlessly.

"Ah always thought Praxus was one of the more aesthetically pleasin' places," Meister murmurs. "Iacon, yeah sure, it's grand an' all, and Simfur's got the majesty, but nowhere is as pretty as your city."

"Thank you," Prowl replies, bowing his head. "I happen to agree." He reaches out, lays a hand againt the dark arm. "Come. We must move on."

Meister moves hesitantly, gaze riveted to the view. Prowl allows himself a small smile. "The view is similar from your new quarters."

"Mah quarters?" That has Meister's attention, and he turns away from the window. "Lead on, mah mech."

Prowl takes Meister along one of the more convoluted routes. The dark mech stays by his side all the time, never making trouble, never asking questions, though Prowl has no doubt that every turn they take and detail they pass is noted by that sharp gaze. After a while he's forced to slow down, as Meister's movements begin to show the signs of his long confinement and he lags behind for a moment.

It's a relief to both of them, Prowl thinks, when they finally get to their goal. It's a nondescript door, the only distinctive feature the heavy lock on the outside that Prowl keys open, mindful of prying optics behind a red visor. As he opens the door, he gestures for Meister to enter ahead of him. "This is you."

Meister walks in, looking around eagerly.

The quarters are bare, by most standards, though a good deal better than the cells. There's a berth, a couch, a work station and a large window. There's two more doors set opposite each other, and a vid screen in the corner.

Meister gravitates towards the window.

"I said the view was good from here too," Prowl says quietly, walking up to stand next to him. "Give me a few more moments to show you a few more things here, and I'll leave you to it."

"Okay," the dark mech agrees, reluctantly turning away.

"As you saw, the door locks from the outside," Prowl begins. The explanation is prepared, routine by now – Meister is not the first to hear it. "And only from the outside. This door," he points to the right, "leads to a small, but private, wash rack."

"A wash rack? Ah get mah own wash rack?" Meister is away from the window and through the door before Prowl has the chance to stop him. Not that doing so was necessary.

And the grin on the dark mech's face when he re-emerges is worth it.

Meister looks to the other door. "And that one?"

Prowl takes a quick note of posture and doorwings. This is the sensitive part of the explanation, the part where, if Meister is to snap, it will happen now. "That leads to my quarters."

Meister pauses, stares at him. "Ya mean ta say that ya're right next door?"

"Yes."

There's silence for a moment. Then Meister grins. It's not a nice grin. "And Ah suppose that one also locks from the outside. Ah can't keep ya out."

"That is correct."

Meister straightens, arms folded in front of him. "Why?"

"Because you're my responsibility now," Prowl replies simply. "If you harm anyone, I take the blame. If you escape, I take the punishment."

"And then ya take it out on me in return," Meister says calculatingly.

"I will never raise a hand to you in anger," Prowl says, trying to impress on the other mech how serious he is on this. "If any of the above-mentioned happens, you'll go back to the cells."

An eyebrow is arched at him. "Ah won't be your facin' slave, either."

"Of course not." Prowl manages to keep the annoyance out of his voice by sheer force of habit. It says a lot about the state of the Neutral territories, and the ones controlled by the Decepticons, that they all said that. He is tired of it. "That door will only open if there is trouble."

A moment of tenseness, then Meister gradually relaxes. "Ah'll take your word for it."

"Good." Prowl nods, then pulls an energon cube out of subspace and puts it on the table. "Here." At Meister's skeptical expression, he arches an eyebrow wryly. "I haven't poisoned you yet, have I?"

The dark mech grins, then. As he moves for the cube, Prowl walks past him and out through the door. "I will see you tomorrow."

He locks the door behind him, and permits himself a small smile. That went very well indeed.

* * *

_First report_

 

Prowl straightens as the comm screen activates. "Prime. Ironhide."

"Prowl," Prime greets him, a slight smile evident in his optics. "How is the prisoner?"

"Better than I had expected at this point," Prowl replies truthfully. "The full information is in my report, but if you want the highlights…?"

"I'd like the highlights," Ironhide grumbles.

Prowl expected that. Ironhide never reads the reports.

"In short, he's showing promise. He's not violent, but he's still observing, testing, always pushing." He pauses, smiles slightly. "He gets out of his room. I don't know how."

"He gets out of his room?" Ironhide sounds incredulous, as well he should. No one has gotten out of the room yet.

"Yes," Prowl confirms. "And every time, he goes back. He hasn't left, Prime."

Optimus Prime, of course, understands the magnitude of this. "That is very promising. Have you had the chance to evaluate him for future inclusion?"

Prowl hesitates, then shake his head. "He is… recalcitrant. If I push too hard, he will be gone. As it is, I haven't had the chance to even breach the topic with him. He considers himself a free operative. Being an Autobot is not the same as being free in his mind."

"You'll keep working on him?" Ironhide asks.

Prowl inclines his head. "Of course."

And it is of course. Prowl hasn't given up any of these cases yet. Though none of them has been even half as difficult – or important – as Meister.

"How are you holding up, Prowl?" Prime asks, and the doorwinged mech knows that he doesn't mean professionally.

"It is… frustrating, at times, Prime," he admits. "This one is hard to predict, hard to gauge accurately. He often does the opposite of what I expect, and sometimes he seems to do so just because he _knows_ that it is the opposite of what I expect. I've had low-probability chances succeed and guaranteed options fail. But I'm going to keep on working on him." He permits himself a small smile and a twitch of doorwings. "Even if he is the most aggravating mech I have ever met."

"Good," Prime returns. "Keep me apprised, Prowl. Prime out."

Prowl sends the command to turn off the screen, then sighs and turns to the door. Time to bring his annoying charge his evening energon. Hopefully he will be in the room this time.

* * *

_First comfort_

 

Prowl sits bolt upright on his berth, and at first, he doesn't know what has woken him up. But then he hears the whimpering again. In a quick motion he's standing, leaning up to the door between his quarters and Meister's, sensors trained to the room beyond.

"No, please, don't," someone cries. "Not them, please, Ah can't… Hurts… No! No! Ah can't, no, stop!"

And then a sparkbreaking wail, breaking down into sobbing, and the litany of words again, before the crying begins.

Meister is crying, screaming, and then there's a loud bang.

For the first time ever, Prowl unlocks the door between the two rooms. He moves as quick as he dares, pulling a gun from subspace just in case. Because if Meister can get out, then who knows what he brought with him back inside.

But the room is empty. He checks the wash rack, but it too is dark and empty. So he turns to the berth.

Where Meister is lying, tossing and turning, coolant tears running down his dark faceplates.

Prowl just stares for a moment.

It's been nearly half a vorn that he's spent with Meister now. This is the first time the mech has a bad recharge flux. At least bad enough for Prowl to notice.

The loud bang comes again, and Prowl realizes that it's Meister throwing his helm against the wall. One of his sensor horns is already dented, and there are streaks of energon on the metal plating.

He could do himself serious injury like that. And he isn't even aware enough to notice.

Cautiously, slowly, Prowl moves over to the berth. He's fairly sure that Meister doesn't have a weapon, but after all this time he also knows that Meister doesn't need one to be dangerous.

Still, he sits down on the edge of the berth.

"Meister. Meister, you're having a bad flux. Meister, wake up." He reaches out to touch a black shoulder.

And suddenly finds himself on his back, a jagged blade pressed against his throat, a snarling dark face just inches from his own.

"Meister," Prowl says carefully. "It's okay. It's me. It's Prowl."

An endless moment, and then Meister's weight vanishes from his chest and the dark mech curls up in the corner of the berth. There's no sign of the jagged blade.

Prowl gets up, sits down on the edge of the bed. "Are you unhurt?" Not all right, no. Meister is not all right, and they both know it.

"Ah'll live." The voice is subdued.

Not for the first time with this mech, Prowl is unsure of the way forward. His calculations are of no help; no action is deemed more or less likely to succeed than any other, and for most of them, his tactical computer unhelpfully tells him that it has too little information to go on.

Prowl is left to his own instincts, which is worrisome. Instinct is not what he is good at. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nah." He sounds bitter. "Talkin' does no good." A black hand comes up, rubs at the coolant stains on dark cheeks. "Why are ya in here, anyway?"

"I heard you through the wall," Prowl replies quietly. "You were calling out."

"Sorry for wakin' ya," Meister says, and for the first time, he sounds sorry. "Ya should go back to recharge."

Prowl starts to stand, then changes his mind. "Tell me about it?"

Meister snorts. "Why do ya want ta know?"

He thinks about that for a moment. "I am not sure."

The chuckle is soft and almost inaudible. "As good a reason as any, Ah suppose." He uncurls from the tense ball of plating, settles down more easily on the bed. "Ah get bad fluxes. Sometimes. From before." He shakes his head, noticing for the first time the droplets of energon dripping from his damaged sensor horn.

"Here, let me see." Prowl moves closer on the berth, pulls out a small medikit from subspace.

"It's probably nothin'. Self-repair'll deal with it," Meister grunts, but he moves closer and tilts his head to give Prowl access.

That's progress.

"It's a crack at the base of a sensor horn," Prowl says, examining the damage. "It should heal up well on its own, but I don't want the energon flowing back into the circuits, so I'm going to put a gel on it."

Meister relaxes into the gently probing touch as Prowl rubs the nanite-rich gel onto the break. It feels exceedingly strange, to have the knowingly unstable murderer leaning into his hands like that, but it's a good sign.

"So… Bad fluxes?"

Meister chuckles grimly. "When ya've seen at much pit-spawned slag as Ah have, it's unavoidable."

"What was it this time?" He never lets his fingers still, even though the gel is long since applied. He's afraid to break the spell.

"Ah saw mah creators torn ta shreds." The voice is soft, muted, resigned. "Ah relive that, from time ta time. They were taken down by buncha marauders. Ah was barely inta mah first youngling frame."

"Meister, I'm so sorry," Prowl says gently, massaging the break in the dark helm.

"Not Meister."

"Excuse me?" His fingers freeze.

The mech lifts his dark head, looks Prowl in the optics. "Mah designation ain't Meister. That's just somethin' Ah've gone by. Mah real designation… The one mah creators gave me…" He pauses, looks away, chuckles softly. "Ah've never given anyone that before. Not since Ah was a younglin'." He looks up again, visor flickering. "Mah designation is Jazz."

"Hello, Jazz," Prowl replies softly. "I'm honored to make your acquaintance." He takes his hands from the other's helm, and stands back up. "You should get some more recharge. I will see you in the morning."

"G'night, Prowler."

The doorwinged mech leaves the same way he arrived. He hesitates just inside his own quarters, thinking. Then he goes back to his berth – but he leaves the door unlocked.

* * *

_First freedom_

 

The skyline of Iacon is no less impressive this time, even though Prowl has seen it many times before. His companion, standing next to him and sporting a brand new paintjob, is smirking slightly.

"Something funny, Jazz?"

"Ah just never thought Ah'd come down this way again, Prowler," the smaller mech replies. "Least not as a free mech."

"You still consider yourself free, then?" Prowl asks, curious and hopeful. It's been a vorn, but he still remembers that Meister never would have considered himself free if he was serving someone.

"Ah'm free to make mah own choice," Jazz says. "Ain't that what ya said? Ah meet him, Ah listen ta him, but Ah'm free ta walk away?"

"You are," Prowl confirms.

"Good," the smaller black-and-white nods. Then he grins, a twinkle in the blue visor. "Though t'be honest, Ah'm probably not walkin' away. Stayin' seems like a better prospect."

"I'm glad," Prowl says. "We could use your skills."

Jazz just flashes him a smile. They've been coming more and more often, those smiles.

The transport lands, and after disembarking they both transform into their alt modes. Jazz sticks close to Prowl's rear, close enough that it would have made him uncomfortable just a few vorns ago. Somehow, though, it doesn't feel imposing now. It feels like backup.

The building they finally stop in front of is tall and typical for Iacon, with large glass panes and gleaming, polished metal along its front. Prowl pings the door for entrance and walk in with Jazz close to his heels.

"Welcome to the Autobot front building," the doorwinged mech murmurs as Jazz makes his way up beside him. "This is the official first stop, where Prime conducts meetings and interviews recruits. Don't let its appearance fool you – it's one of the most heavily defended buildings in the city."

"Ah believe ya," Jazz replies, tones equally quiet. Then he winks, one side of the visor dimming for an instant. "Behave, and there's no need for guards, right?"

Prowl has to chuckle at the reminder of the first time they'd walked together through a corridor like this. "We won't need any," he replies confidently, before stopping in front of a large, heavy double door. "We're here."

The meeting room isn't one of the biggest, for which Prowl is grateful. Jazz is taking most things in stride, but there's no saying if he would spook at the sight of Prime sitting at the head of the massive conference table in one of the grander rooms.

As it is, Jazz gravitates to the window, as he has done many times before. He doesn't even take notice of the other two inhabitants in the room.

"It is magnificent, isn't it," Prime says quietly, walking up to stand next to the much smaller mech. "I never tire of the view."

"It ain't the worst, that's for sure," Jazz grins, and Prowl realizes that the visored mech had missed nothing. "Thanks for receivin' me, Prime."

"It is my pleasure, Jazz," Optimus replies. "I have great hopes that we can work together for mutual benefit."

The negotiations take a few hours. Jazz agrees readily to be an Autobot, which makes Prowl more relieved than he would have expected, but there is still the manner of the information he sits on, who to tell and what to do with it.

And there is one more matter to conclude at the end of the interview.

"That's it but for one thing," Prime nods with a small smile. "Prowl, we have your new commission."

Jazz turns abruptly, and Prowl gets the impression that the smaller mech is staring at him. "New commission?"

"Yes," Prowl replies with a faint smile. "Up until now, I have been in charge of assimilating a valuable recruit into the Autobot ranks. Namely, you. Since you've joined, my task is done."

"As it stands right now, we need yer skills elsewhere," Ironhide drawls. "Smokescreen will handle assimilations from now on."

"He's a good choice," Prowl agrees. Smokescreen lacks the tactical planning skills, but his instincts are far superior.

"Well, what are ya goin' ta do, Prowler?" Jazz sounds somewhat – hesitant, which is a surprise.

Prowl looks at Optimus, waiting for the answer to the same question.

"We have an opening for head tactician," Optimus says with a slight smile. "The fighting is intensifying. Your skill set would be invaluable. You would be stationed here in Iacon with me and the command staff."

Prowl nods. "That sounds very agreeable, Prime. When do I start?"

"Tomorrow too soon?" Ironhide's grinning. "We have yer quarters all done up already, and yer office is just across the hall from mine."

"Tomorrow is acceptable." Prowl allows some of his excitement to show in his doorwings. "Thank you."

"And me?" Jazz chimes in with a grin. "Do Ah begin tomorrow too?"

"Yup," Ironhide confirms. "You report to me, first thing tomorrow, for evaluation. Fer now, go with Prowl. He's still in charge of you until then."

Jazz turns towards Prowl, and his grin is radiant. "Excellent. Ya get ta show me the Iacon nightlife!"

Prowl looks at him with dread.

* * *

_First interest_

 

"Hiya, Prowler!"

Prowl puts his datapad down with a sigh. "Hello, Jazz. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Nah, Ah jus' came ta tell ya the good news!" The smaller black-and-white is grinning, visor twinkling merrily. He's sat down on one corner of Prowl's desk, as usual, fiddling with one datapad and making a mess of Prowl's carefully constructed filing system, as usual, and being infuriating, as usual.

Prowl often thinks that if it hadn't been for the damage Jazz could have caused them while running free as Meister, it might have been better if they had let him be. At least then work would get done on time around here.

"What good news, Jazz?" he asks neutrally.

"Prime's announced the crew for the _Ark_ expedition," Jazz grins. "And we're both on it." A white hand comes up, points at Prowl's chestplates. "You as second in command." The thumb points back towards Jazz. "And me as third."

"Well, congratulations," Prowl says, allowing his doorwings to move up to a more excited position. Even if he also feels something akin to foreboding when he considers being stuck on a spaceship with Jazz, noble quest though it is. "That is quite a promotion for you. Will you still be able to uphold your role as head of Special Operations?"

"Yeah, Prime okayed it, said Ah can pick mah own team," Jazz grins. The leg that's not on the ground is kicking merrily into the air. "So Ah figured we should celebrate."

"Celebrate? Jazz, I'm working." He indicates the stacks of datapads that had been placed systematically on the desk – until Jazz came in and created his usual chaos.

"Ah can see that. But ya know what they say – all work an' no fun…"

"… makes sure that the _Ark_ can depart on time," Prowl finishes smoothly. "No, Jazz."

"Aw, c'mon Prowler!" Jazz flops over on the desk dramatically, scattering datapads in all directions. "Ya can take a break at least! Have ya even refueled today?"

Prowl takes a moment to control himself. He can sort the datapads again later. Being angry with Jazz serves no purpose, it makes no impact on him. The smaller black-and-white just shakes it off and bounces right back.

"Fine," he sighs. "We'll refuel. But that's it. Prime needs these datapads today."

"Sure thing, Prowler," Jazz grins.

"My name is Prowl."

"Ah know that."

Walking down the hallway towards the rec room, Prowl does his best to tune out his smaller and more irritating companion without actually seeming to. Jazz is talking away, seeming insistent to fill every moment with words.

"…Ah though Ah'd take Bumblebee, ya know? He's turnin' out to be more'n decent. And Mirage, o' course, 'Raj has ta come. Ironhide says he's bringin' the twins, Prime's okayed it though Ratchet's not too happy."

Hmm. Maybe listening would pay off. It would certainly be beneficial to know which mechs he could enter into his calculations. "Mirage is an asset," Prowl muses, "if he can get along."

Jazz snorts. "If Cliffjumper can learn ta get along, 'Raj can learn to get along. It ain't that hard."

"True," Prowl agrees wryly. "I manage to get along with you."

Jazz grins at him. "Pit, mech, everyone gets along wi' me. An' you got more practice than most. Anyway, both Ratch an' Wheeljack are comin', and Perceptor, an' Ah'm workin' on Prime to get him ta bring Blaster."

"His skills would be an asset," Prowl agrees as they enter the rec room, which, thankfully, is deserted. He prefers to refuel in relative peace and quiet – though he won't get that with his current companion, he's sure. "I'd support that decision. What more do you know of the roster, Jazz?"

The smaller mech shoots him a strange grin. "See, Ah knew it'd be beneficial for ya to hang out wi' me. Ah can make it worth your while, Prowler, if ya jus' gimme the chance."

There is a new expression on his face. Jazz almost looks… hopeful?

Strange.

Prowl calculates a 94.6 percent chance that Jazz has a hidden agenda he hasn't told him about. He also figures it's a 82.6 chance that it's benign, and a 7.2 percent chance that it'll end in utter disaster.

They collect a cube each, and sit down at the table. Jazz talks on about the mission, the roster and the interdependence of the crew, and Prowl suddenly finds himself listening more eagerly to Jazz than he's done since the other became an Autobot. He doesn't even notice when the rec room fills up with mechs and then empties again.

They sit there talking well past the end of his shift.

* * *

_First foundations_

 

The Ark is well-built, solid, if a bit – orange. Not that that matters, Prowl thinks, as long as it flies well, which will be demonstrated soon. They're about a joor away from leaving Cybertron, and he's standing at the Prime's side for the shift change.

"Ironhide, Bumblebee, you have the _Ark_ ," Optimus says. The two mechs before them salute before walking to their stations. "Come, Prowl, let us refuel."

Prowl is not too surprised when Jazz falls into step next to them. It's been the norm of his existence since they moved into the ship to begin familiarizing themselves with the ship and preparing for departure – he leaves the bridge, and there's Jazz. No matter if the saboteur was actually elsewhere just before.

Prowl calculates a 90.3 chance that Jazz is purposely waiting for him, though he can't fathom why.

"Evenin', Prime, Prowl," Jazz greets them. "How was your shift?"

"Uneventful," Prime replies, smiling at the visored mech. "And I hope it will stay that way. How was yours?"

"All good," Jazz grins. "Ah think we're on track. You headin' for the rec room?"

"Indeed," Prime agrees. "We have time for a cube and a quick break before we're ready to leave the planet." Then he frowns slightly, and Prowl can see the signs indicating a private comm. Then Optimus sighs. "Or not. My friends, please continue without me. I'm needed in Engineering."

Jazz watches Optimus leave, and then turns his bright smile on Prowl. "Looks like it's just you an' me, Prowler."

"So it seems," Prowl agrees, wondering why the prospect makes him wary. Not that he lets Jazz see that, though he suspects the saboteur knows. Jazz is one of the most perceptive mechs Prowl has ever met.

They enter the brand-new rec room and Jazz fetches them both a cube, then drops down into a chair opposite Prowl. "Here ya go, Prowler."

Prowl accepts, looks into the liquid as he swirls it around in the cube. He predicts a 46 percent chance that Jazz will tell him the truth if he asks. But he knows for sure it will drive him to distraction if he doesn't try. "Jazz," he says slowly, not looking at the other mech, "I have a question for you, and I'd like a truthful response. Please."

Jazz leans back, looking more than a little apprehensive. "O-kay? Ya know ya can ask me most anythin', mech."

"I know," Prowl replies, allowing himself a small smile. "I can ask anything, and you will reply what you wish to."

"That's it exactly," Jazz grins. "So what's on your mind?"

Prowl hesitates. There will be no way back from this. "Jazz… Why do you wait for me every day?"

Whatever Jazz was expecting, that doesn't seem to have been it. His optics reset, and he frowns slightly.

Suddenly, Prowl worries that he's somehow offended the mech in front of him, something which he hasn't managed to do since he called Jazz a Decepticon when they first met.

And when Jazz hesitates, starts drawing meaningless half-glyphs on the table, that's when Prowl becomes _really_ nervous.

"Prowl, how long have we known each other?" Jazz asks at last, still looking away.

"Since I met Meister," Prowl replies slowly, "it's been vorns, Jazz. I've known you longer than I'd lived before we met."

"At least half mah life, maybe more," Jazz agrees. "You're mah friend, Prowl. You're the first mech Ah've trusted since Ah was… Ah don't know, since Ah was a younglin', Ah guess." He looks up then, tentative, hesitant, almost worried. "Is it so strange that Ah want to refuel with a friend?"

"No, of course not," Prowl says, realizing he'll say almost anything to get that look off of Jazz's face, illogical though it is. "I enjoy spending my free time with you, I do." And he does, he realizes. Now when did that happen? It's not like they've socialized all that much since Jazz joined the Autobots. They have vastly different interests, and Prowl has been content with his own.

Still, when he thinks back… Jazz always stops by his office, each shift without fail, and he's always in the rec room when Prowl is. More often than not, lately, Jazz has been the one to drag him there.

Prowl suddenly realizes he spends more time in the company of the saboteur than he does with anyone else. Not only that, but he suspects the reverse is true as well – and the implications of that are staggering, because unlike him, Jazz is a very social mech.

Prowl's tactical computer is suddenly running a whole new set of scenarios, trying to reach a conclusion.

His words serve to soothe the other black-and-white, though. And the smile on Jazz's face… It heats Prowl up from his spark chamber outwards, until he feels lighter than he has for an age. He can't help but return it.

"Ah'm glad, Prowler," Jazz replies quietly, still with that smile. "Ah do too."

They sit there, together, sipping from their cubes, not saying much, trading small smiles. Prowl feels like he's on the edge of something he hasn't experienced before, like Jazz has pulled him into the strange and chaotic way he sees the world. It's new, surreal, not entirely unwelcome.

After an age and a half, Prowl downs the rest of his cube and disperses it. "We should go," he murmurs. "We're supposed to be on the bridge again in a breem or so for departure."

"Sure thing, Prowler," Jazz agrees, still softly, still smiling. "Let's go."

* * *

_First dependence_

 

"What is it?"

"An asteroid."

"There's another one!"

"They're going to collide!"

Prowl works the controls furiously, trying in vain to plot a course through the debris field. It's not working. From the corner of his optic, he can see Jazz flying through the air as the saboteur is thrown from his seat by the impact. Jazz manages to turn his frame, though, crashing into the bulkhead feet first and sliding to the floor easily before moving to another station and helping monitor the ship's systems.

And then they've got worse things to worry about. Much worse things. "Viewtrex report," Prowl calls. "We _are_ being followed!"

"Decepticons!" Prime sounds furious, as well he should be. Prowl's not that amused himself.

"They've made a magnetic junction!" Jazz snarls, trying and failing to get the ship's systems to obey. "I can't shake them!"

Prowl grimaces as his readings give him the same information. This is not turning into a good shift. They've barely escaped Cybertron's gravity well, and already there are Decepticons on their tail!

*Prowler?*

He's surprised at the private comm, but he doesn't show it. "Yes, Jazz?"

"Wanna go on a date wi' me when we get back ta Cybertron? Or before, if we can find somewhere that serves some decent high-grade?*

Prowl glances over, but Jazz appears engrossed in his work, fingers moving quickly over the console.

*I would love to, Jazz,* he comms back, looking down at his own monitor, a strange feeling in his tanks that have nothing to do with the situation they're in.

And then a new light starts blinking on his console. Hull breach.

"They're coming aboard!"

Jazz moves away from his console and readies his hand gun, and he's not the only one.

"Prepare for battle!" Optimus orders.

Prowl readies his own weapon. He glances at Jazz, finds the saboteur looking at him. *We will get out of this, Jazz.*

*Oh, Ah know,* Jazz replies, and the smile that flits across his face is so fleeting that Prowl almost wonders if he's imagined it. *Ah've gotten out o' worse. B'sides, you've got mah back.*

There is no doubt in Jazz's tone. None at all. And Prowl feels his confidence grow at the saboteur's words. *Always,* he promises.

"Good," Jazz replies, out loud this time, and now the grin is very visible and does not bode well for the boarding Decepticons. "Let's go kick some 'Con aft."

* * *

_First togetherness_

 

Prowl walks in the direction Jazz had told him to go, following the small signs he left behind and weaving through the empty Ark hallways like a shadow. Most of the other mechs are in recharge, and Ops is in Sideswipe's somewhat capable hands. Considering they just sent Megatron packing with most of his fusion cannon in fragments, Prowl figures they're as safe as they can be.

Which lets him chase down the saboteur.

Jazz's tracks lead out through the blast doors. Prowl pauses for a moment outside, drinking in the calm and quiet of the night. This planet, dusty and smelly and gritty as it is, is beautiful.

He turns, walks up the path on the side of the mountain. He's enjoying their game – there's no chance that he can come upon Jazz undetected, but he still pulls his plating close to his body and mutes the glow of his optics, hiding for just a little while longer. A smile plays across his mouthplates.

When he gets to the plateau near the top, Jazz is there waiting for him. Looking straight at him, too, with a small, secretive smile on his face.

"Hey, Prowler," he purrs softly, leaning back. "Ya found me."

"I did," Prowl replies, walking over and kneeling in front of the saboteur. "Want to tell me what this is about?"

"Well, this mudball planet ain't got any high-grade," Jazz muses, "and the nightlife's not exactly up to mah standards. But ya can't fault the view." He throws out his arm in a sweeping arch, indicating the vista in front of them. "Wanna share it wi' me?"

Prowl smiles, sitting down next to the saboteur. "Definitely."

They sit together in silence for a while. Prowl pretends to look at the view, but he finds himself constantly glancing to his left, taking in Jazz's profile, the way the starlight reflects on his plating, the elegant, relaxed way he holds himself.

Jazz is beautiful. And Prowl can't understand why he hasn't seen it before.

The third-in-command catches him looking and winks. "Enjoyin' our date?"

"Immensely," Prowl replies truthfully, still absorbing the fact that he's attracted to the mech beside him. "Thank you for this."

Jazz smiles, a gentle expression very different from his usual bravado. "Good."

Then, suddenly, Prowl finds himself with his arms full of purring Porsche.

"Jazz," he breathes, letting his hands caress the smooth plating. "What is this?"

"This is me bein' fed up with waitin', Prowler," Jazz whispers back, his clever dark fingers running up Prowl's central transformation seam. "Ah've been bidin' mah time for aeons. An' now that Ah know that ya'd be willin' to entertain the idea of you an' me… Well, Ah'm not gonna wait for the 'Cons ta take ya away from me."

Prowl stills, looking into that blue visor, imagining he can see the optics underneath. "I have been blind, haven't I," he muses, lifting a hand and letting one finger run down Jazz's cheek. "How did I not see what I had in front of me all this time?"

And Jazz is trembling, he notices, his plating vibrating against Prowl's, his visor darkening slowly towards sapphire. Prowl cups the other's neck, pulls him close until they're forehead to forehead. "You're beautiful," he murmurs.

Jazz moans, and then his mouth plates are pressing against Prowl's.

And time stops. The world fades away. Prowl isn't aware of anything but Jazz, of the warm plating against his hands, the fingers moving over his shoulders and doorwings, the heat of Jazz's chest pressing against his own. His mouth opens, permitting Jazz to deepen the kiss, and in the next moment they're on the ground, Jazz lying beneath him, moaning and pulling Prowl towards him eagerly.

Eager mouths are exploring sensor horns and doorwings, black and white fingers dipping into transformation seams and caressing sensitive hinges, and Jazz pulls Prowl close enough that every inch of their plating is touching. They rock together, cables suddenly connected to ports, and the sensations of pleasure that Jazz is sending through the connection is enough to have Prowl arching his back and keening softly. He kisses his saboteur again hungrily, glossa running over Jazz's lower mouth plate, Jazz moaning into his mouth. And when Jazz crests with charge running rampant through his systems, Prowl follows suit, his overload strong enough to leave him panting and trembling, barely able to support his weight on arms placed on either side of Jazz's head.

Jazz disconnects them with shaky fingers, spooling their cables back up and closing their interface panels, and Prowl lets himself roll off to lie on the ground next to him. He reaches out and pulls the saboteur into his arms, curling around the smaller frame protectively.

Jazz nuzzles at Prowl's arms encircling his torso and cradling his helm, and Prowl tightens his grip somewhat, mouthing at the back of his lover's neck cables. "You are amazing."

"That's mah line, Prowler," Jazz replies, sounding content and more than half in recharge.

Prowl chuckles. "Let's get you inside. You can't recharge out here on the mountain."

"Can't move," Jazz sighs, smiling and snuggling up against the tactician. "Too low on energy."

"My silly Jazz," Prowl murmurs, kissing a dark helm. "I'll carry you." He sits up, picking up the smaller mech and relishing in the way Jazz leans against him.

The way back down is precarious in the dark, and he has to watch his footing, but he manages. The Ark is as dark and still as it was, though he's reminded fairly soon that someone's always watching.

*Prowl, sir? Something wrong with Jazz?*

*He's fine, Sideswipe, just fell into recharge on the mountain.*

There's a distinct undertone of mirth in Sideswipe's voice. *It's about slagging time, sir. That's been a long time coming. Sideswipe out.*

Somehow, Prowl gets the feeling that the twin is not merely talking about Jazz's recharge habits.

He carries the recharging mech back towards the officer's quarters, pausing momentarily outside Jazz's door. The right thing to do would probably be to override the door using his command code, but the way Jazz is clinging to him makes the right thing to do very untempting. Besides, he calculates a 98.2 chance that Jazz was telling the truth tonight and will not at all be unhappy if he doesn't wake up alone…

So, smiling slightly, he walks past Jazz's door and over to his own.

He may never let his saboteur go again.

* * *

_Now..._

 

Isobel giggles. "So, wait, wait. You tried flirting with him for how long?"

"Well over a thousand of your years, sweetspark," Jazz grins. "He was so oblivious."

"I was," Prowl confirms, smiling up at his mate. "But I do believe I made up for it when I finally caught on." He reaches up, tugs at Jazz's hand until the saboteur drops down next to him on the sofa.

"That ya did," Jazz agrees, leaning up against Prowl's shoulder.

Isobel cants her head and smiles, the dimples in her cheek showing. "So when did you actually fall for him?"

Jazz looks down at where his fingers are intertwined with Prowl's. "Ah knew Ah wanted t' be with him from the moment he woke me up from mah bad recharge flux."

"That early?" Prowl murmurs. He hadn't known Jazz had made up his mind back then already.

"Ah woke up and felt safe," Jazz says, tilting his head and looking up. "So, Ah knew. And every moment after that jus' reinforced mah belief that you were the one for me."

Prowl leans down, kisses the black helm. "I love you, Jazz."

"You two are so sweet, I'm getting cavities here," Isobel comments, standing up. "I have to go, Bumblebee's waiting for me." She smiles at them, revealing those dimples again. "Thanks for telling me. I'm honored that you would."

"Of course," Prowl replies, smiling back. "You're family, Isobel."

"We'll see ya around, sweetspark," Jazz adds, using his favored term for the human femme who's wormed her way into his spark so easily. "Say hi ta Bee for us."

"You got it," the little human replies, waving cheerily at them before walking out the door.

No sooner is she gone before Jazz is on Prowl's lap, leaning up against his chest, mouth hovering just inches away from Prowl's own.

"Now, mate o' mine," he whispers, a sly twinkle in his visor, "what do ya say we try ta recreate that first night on the mountain?"

Prowl is instantly on fire, arms wrapping his saboteur up and pulling him close. "I thought you would never ask." And then he loses himself in his mate again, just like the first time, and he knows it won't be the last.


End file.
